


Step Right Up

by SeeNashWrite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Behind the scenes canon-compliant, Creepy, Gen, Mystery, Spooky, on the case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-14 07:10:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16488062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeNashWrite/pseuds/SeeNashWrite
Summary: Sam is trapped in what’s left of a burnt-down circus while attempting to assist a tormented soul, when a mysterious ringmaster arrives.





	1. Chapter 1

The fog had turned to smoke, the kind that filled every crack in a head, so thick that he was able to brush it away from his face in bulky clumps. No brushing away the thoughts it conjured, though; Sam never  _had_ been able to get the picture of his first hunter’s funeral out of his mind. Not the sight, not the smell, not the feel of the wood, not the sparks that would pop away and hit his skin. There was plenty of time to make the memory; it took a while to burn a body to dust.

The clouds cleared after he walked out of the trees and into the open field, much of the grass brittle black, then he saw the source: a quite large, still smoldering, partially collapsed tent.

“Dean!” he hissed, moving forward, but in a slight crouch, gun out and at the ready. He received no reply, instead being startled by the sound of a horse’s gallop, prompting him to turn in a full circle, scanning his surroundings - there was nothing. No brother. No horses. No signs of life. Nor - interestingly - death.

But now, as he went on, that gray returned, not as thick, though it had morphed into an obstructive wall of ash in flight. It stung his eyes, and he stopped his progression, blinking, rubbing, and coughing as it turned tornado, oozed around him, then after a swirl or two, quickly flew away. And when he felt it leave and raised himself tall, he momentarily forgot to raise his gun because of what he saw.

Sam now found he was in a thoroughfare of sorts, standing in between rotted wooden wagons with cracked axles, their surfaces barely hanging on to ribbons of chipped paint. He walked on, in the direction of his intended target, the edges of the collapsed tent now just barely visible in the distance, despite the shabby passage being lined with precisely spaced poles, strings of small round bulbs connecting them, most of them lit, lazily swaying in a nonexistent breeze. The gray remained, though it was staying a polite distance ahead of him, and a peek over his shoulder revealed it was also keeping pace from behind. And his pace, understandably, was more creep than walk.

Broken popcorn stands rested on their sides, streamers from what must have been thousands of balloons littered the ground here and there, kept company by fallen bunting, yellowed, wrinkled tickets, and the glass from all the other quaint booths, all the customary fairground attractions. It crunched under his boots with every step, and that was another hair-raising thing: no footprints beyond his own. Not a trace, neither animal nor human, no indication this place - whatever or wherever this place was - had ever been inhabited, evidence to the contrary be damned.

Blocking his way was what was left of the strength test, the gauge stuck fast by the bell, and as he stepped over it, he mumbled, “Least there’s no clowns.”

And that was when he saw her.

She was perched on the unlatched tailgate of an ancient truck, the deflated tires allowing the rims to sink into the soft ground, her posture just as sunken, her head turned from him, looking in the direction of the tent. She wore a skirted costume, singed and smeared with black here and there, and Sam could imagine it was once a pristine white. The ruffled collar was ripped and pooled around her shoulders, and as he drew closer he saw that some of the smudges along the sheer sleeves torn at the elbows and the tights torn at the knees were actually part of a faded harlequin print. And even closer still, noted how one of her shoes dangled from her toes, the strap of the dainty ballet-like slipper nowhere to be found.

Sam couldn’t say why he kept approaching, as he was feeling slightly drowsy and perhaps a touch nauseated, but nevertheless he was drawn, a definite pull, and was almost within reach when she spoke in a faintly accented voice.

“Are you are here for the job? I cannot think you would be an under-stander.”

“Understand what?” he asked, brow furrowing, grip on the gun tightening.

Still turned from him, she replied, her tone flat but confident. “You are too big. The pyramid would be uneven. I would fall.”

“I don’t—”

“I could put in a word. You would be good for banquine. I love going high.”

Her voice was easily one of the saddest Sam had ever heard, even here, speaking of something she loved. “Going high,” he repeated. “Are you an acrobat?”

No answer.

“Are you hurt?” he tried.

Nothing.

“Where is everyone else? The ticket-takers? The animals? The cl… the other performers?”

That got a response - one of sorts, since she began to turn her head in his direction, into the light, slowly enough to where he could take in the streaky greasepaint, the smeared red on her lips and cheeks, the dark shadow around the entirety of her eyes, and before all that, the deep, concave wound surrounded by clotted, matted hair just behind her ear which the frayed bow around her once tightly-wound bun could not conceal.

“I am not sure,” she said, eyes now focused directly in front of her, on a mostly-charred shack of a structure, the half-burnt banner stretched across what was left of the doorframe telling Sam it once read  _FORTUNE TELLER_. Turning her head further, they were finally face to face. “Can you help me find them?”

Sam stared at the spirit for more than a few beats of silence before he lowered the gun and answered.

“I can try.”

.

* * *

.

The big tent was still far off, but along the way familiarity struck her, and so into a smaller tent they went. It was stuffy, the air acrid, and Sam knew at least a few people had died in there - even if the smell hadn’t told him, the human-shaped scorches on what was left of the tarp which covered the ground would have. But she didn’t appear to notice; instead she meandered, taking in the space, and so he did the same. The fire had only done its work at one end; at the other, a rack of costumes remained mostly intact, excepting the soot. Clown gear, he knew that instinctively, and his lip curled out of reflex. They weren’t the sort he was used to - they were more formal, somehow. He moved a few to get a better look, the metal of the hangers screeching across the bar and, suddenly, she was at his side.

“Grimaldi,” she said softly. “It was Grimaldi’s funeral.”

“Is that… that a friend? Someone you worked with?” Sam asked.

“No. Grimaldi died long ago.” She seemed to recall something, reaching for the garments, but her hand didn’t quite land; didn’t move through them, either, only succeeded in displacing the air, causing a sleeve or two to flutter. She dropped her arm, went completely still.

“I got it,” Sam told her, reaching up.

“Move them all - something is behind here,” she instructed, and he did so.

The rack had obstructed from view a modest vanity, not but one or two drawers on either side of the patchwork tuffet squeezed into the open space, the top covered with combs and pans of make-up. The mirror seemed too large, almost so disproportionate that it could’ve tipped the whole thing over, tall enough that taking a few steps back would’ve revealed the entirety of one’s outfit. Well,  _most_ \- Sam would’ve needed to back away for quite some time; had he been there on the night of, likely right into the flames.

The frame of the mirror held so many pictures Sam thought they must’ve accounted for a lifetime, and turned out he wasn’t altogether wrong. They weren’t accumulated over a lifetime; they  _held_  a lifetime - hers. Across the top she was young, a baby held tightly in the arms of a grinning couple, costumed in tights and cropped jumpsuits.  _Acrobats_ , Sam confirmed to himself. Then there was another tucked next to it, of her as a girl in a stiff, pleated skirt, a tiny ballerina caught mid-pirouette.

She’d immediately extended an arm, fingers out and ready to grab as they’d stepped through the rack, but just before contact, she remembered. She looked up at Sam with sad eyes, though they were dry and bloodshot, the tiny drawing on her cheek the only tear possible. He followed those eyes as they left his, down her arm, to the fingers that had turned to a singular point, at one area of the photographs, in the lower right corner.

“You want me to get those?” he asked, and she nodded.  

He moved a portion of the objects on the dresser to the ground, spread out the photos so she could see them clearly. The couple from the first photo were nowhere to be seen, the girl now surrounded by, embraced by, riding the shoulders of, laughing with a small group of clowns - and, oddly, Sam was more solemn than scared. All he could see -  _feel_  - from the typically shudder-inducing was love. It wasn’t faux cheer; the painted-on smiles could’ve been rubbed off, the whole gimmick stripped away, because it would’ve been obvious to anyone seeing these captured memories that it was far from an act. She had been loved, and dearly.

But he had a thought, and he asked the question before his mind had time to catch up with his mouth. “What happened to your parents?”

If she was offended by his nosiness, she didn’t show it, answering, “They left me here. When I was a child.” Once more, she pointed to the happy faces staring back at them. “ _This_ is my family.”

Another photo caught Sam’s eye, and he pulled it from the frame, laid it atop the others. “And who’s this?”

She was the age she appeared to be at her death, or a least somewhere close - same costume, matter of fact - and was standing next to a man outfitted as ringmaster. He was older than her, Sam observed, but still young: he could see the lack of wrinkles despite the impressive handlebar mustache, and the head full of solid black hair, given that the hand not holding hers was occupied with a tall top hat. Sam glanced from the photograph to her - she was swaying slightly and her eyes had gone a little wide. She abruptly moved away, would’ve stumbled over the bottom bar of the rack except she sailed clean through it without realizing, kept up the retreat til Sam followed, held up both hands, gesturing for her to stop.

“Whoa, whoa - hang on. What is it? Who is he?”

“I think he did something bad,” she whispered, trembling.

“What do you remem—-”

“I think  _I_ did something bad!” she cried, then bolted from the tent.

When Sam chased after, he emerged from the tent to find nothing. Not her, not the light poles, not the ruined booths and wagons - everything was gone. Looking behind him, the dressing tent had disappeared. Looking to his right, there was no trace of the big top.  Not even the fog had hung around; all that remained was that wide, open field in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere.

“Dean!” Sam called out, bringing his hands up to cup his mouth. “ _DEAN!_  CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

“He cannot, I’m afraid.”

Sam whipped his gun from his waistband as he whipped himself around, finding a man in a modern-style suit walking in his direction. The steady pace didn’t waver, despite being in the line of fire, and as the man approached, he removed a cap from his head, gave Sam a small, polite bow of acknowledgement when he came to a stop about twenty paces out. A trace of a smile floated under his modest - but impressive - mustache.

“It was good of you to come, Mr. Winchester. I appreciate your attendance more than I can say. Thank you for accepting the invitation.”

"What invitation?" Sam asked. His eyes narrowed. There was something familiar about the man - the way he stood, the glint in his eye - then it hit him. "I know you. You're the ringmaster."

The man nodded. “Yes. And I believe if you check your pocket, you’ll find the invitation to which I refer.” A pause. “I also believe you’re aware that pistol of yours won’t be needed, true?”

The ragged flyer that was faded and worn, the one that had started Dean and Sam on the hunt, now emerged as intact as the day it was printed. What they’d known prior had been fairly sparse - the general area, the off-and-on reports over the decades of the smells of pretzels and peanuts, claims of hearing calliope music or an elephant’s trumpet or a crowd’s cheers, seeing strings of lights in the woods, sometimes a girl who seemed to walk in mid-air, and all for one night only. One night, each year, stretching back to the early 1940s, somewhere on a spot of land in what was now a reserve. Good thing, too - it smacked of a trapped spirit caught in some sort of loop, and the brothers could only imagine what havoc such a thing would’ve brought upon excavators and construction crews.

_“So let ‘em have their circus til we have something better to go on,” Dean had commented. “Nobody’s gotten hurt, right? Sounds like a great party.”_

_Sam had given him a *look*._

_And Dean had chuckled. “Hey, if Bozo RSVPs this year? You can keep the car running, I can handle it.”_

But there were no RSVPs in that year, nor the next, so the lead was officially tucked away in Sam’s  _TO BE MONITORED_  files, and it lived there for several more, largely forgotten in and amongst their other trials and tribulations. When things slowed down, though, Sam would dig through his files, refresh his memory, keep himself sharp for when he’d scan the news and the blogs, so any potential connections could be made. And in the fall of  _this_ year, as it so happened, the connection found  _them_.

In their P.O. box, an ordinary envelope held the neatly folded relic - no accompanying note or return address, naturally - and it was enough to tell Sam that something was amiss. The occurrence wasn’t due until the early summer. He’d immediately gotten a chill that had nothing to do with the October air.      

Now as Sam looked it over, he said, “Then this was meant for us  - not just any hunters?”

“Meant for  _you_ ,” the ringmaster clarified. “My former employer mentioned that between the fire and the clowns, you’d fit the bill nicely.”

“Yeah. Nice.”

“He was quite complimentary of you. Of your forbearance, your way with people, living or otherwise. He wasn’t complimentary often.”

Sam wasn’t paying attention to the flattery, instead taking in the new details. There was the circus company’s name in festive typography, tiny drawings of the wagons and the lion tamers and trapeze artists and sword-swallowers and the ringmaster, himself, skirted the edges, but the bulk of the paper was saved for illustrations of the company’s clown contingent and the details of this clearly special event. Now the date and time - May 31st at eight o'clock sharp - as well as the location were specific, directing would-be attendants past commercial landmarks that no longer existed, then instructing them to continue on foot to the clearing, following the trail of lights. It was not open to the public - this was a celebration for clowns, and clowns alone, from harlequin to mime, traditional to modern, all to honor the anniversary of the death of Joseph Grimaldi.

“It was our responsibility to host - not everyone had escaped the Depression so well….” The man paused, let out a scant huff. “Not that we  _did_ , but we were better off than most. To tell truth, I wouldn’t have done it, I come from a long line of misers, but she… she wanted it so badly. They - the clown troupe, that is - sent invitations to all four corners of the state, any fair or carnival or theater that may’ve held their brethren. It was to be a lovely night.”

.

* * *

.

She was running. There was no thought to the  _how_ or the  _where_ , it was just  _GO_. She hadn’t cried like this for years, not since the day her parents abandoned her at the circus, a note pinned to her sweater saying she was talented, she could dance, earn her keep as long as they kept her in decent shoes, and nothing beyond this - no reason, no explanation, no  _Tell her we love her_ , no  _Tell her we’re coming back_. At least they were kind enough not to make promises they couldn’t keep.

_“Oh honey, you are so very nervous!”_

_“The show is starting soon, cheer up!”_

_“No need to cry, they will be on their feet screaming!”_

_“Here, now, let me fix your make-up!”_

She’d run headlong into them, the last people on earth she’d have wanted to see her in such a state, and she let them go on assuming it was simply stage fright.

_“Our Butterfly has the butterflies!”_

_“You will still be one of us, no matter how high you go, you know.”_

_“Your parents would be so proud of you - *we* are so proud of you.”_

Then she let them fuss over her, let them pretty her up, let them lead her to the tent, and they waited with her behind the curtains just to the side of the ring, rubbing her shoulders, holding her hands, making her giggle with the same old silly gags they’d used to cheer her since the day she became theirs.

_“Because what do we say, Butterfly?”_

She forced a smile and joined in on the group chorus.  

_“The show must go on!”_

.

* * *

.

Sam returned the flyer to his pocket, faced the ringmaster with a stony expression, gun still in hand, albeit at his side. “She’s seven months to the day early - is that why you all of a sudden need help?”

“It has been cycling with more regularity, her walks through the past. I imagine fewer persons have noticed, as this area is largely unoccupied now.”

“You mentioned a boss.”

“Yes. I am tasked with watching over her… I  _have_ been watching over her, looking for signs that she’ll take her leave, or if…. if she’ll lash out.”

“Lash out?” Sam repeated.

“She can be quite emotional.”

“Yeah, I believe it - she jumped like she’d been shot when she saw your picture. She said you did something bad, and that she did something bad - is  _she_  the one who lit the circus after she died? I saw her head—-”

The ringmaster winced.

“—-so I’m betting she didn’t die in the fire, did she? Was she angry about it? Wanted to take the rest of you with her? Or was she  _already_ angry about whatever it is  _you_ did?”

“It was my fault. I should never have allowed her to even entertain the thought that she should take her dancing and tumbling to the high wire. I can only imagine the rage she felt toward me as she fell, when the safety net failed.”

“What does ‘failed’ mean?”

“I told you - I’m not proud of how miserly I was. If I could turn back time, I’d feed them more, pay them more, have better equipment at their disposal.” He hung his head now. “And I should have evacuated the moment the fire leapt from my trailer to others nearby. I was more concerned about loss of investment than loss of life.”

“So you let all those people die—-”

“Not all,” he corrected. “There were enough to stamp out the worst of the flames. The smoke took some. But I’m well aware I ruined the few who lived. It wasn’t a time to be unemployed. They were already hand-to-mouth. I wonder sometimes if the ones who perished actually drew the long straw.”

“They  _didn’t_ ,” Sam shot back, and coldly.

The ringmaster looked away for a few moments, squeezed the brim of the hat off-and-on, be it from agitation or simply fidgeting, Sam didn’t know - that is, until their gazes met again, and all the charm the ringmaster had carefully cultivated over his lifetime had fallen away, tears rolling over his no longer rosy cheeks.

“I’ve been punished, you know. For my carelessness, my stupidity. It should be more, I’d think, but it  _has_ been difficult. Watching her suffer. To be tasked with reaping her soul, and being unable to communicate with her - I thought for many years, if only I were able, despite her anger toward me, I could remind her of the love we shared, convince her to leave the mortal coil.”

“Reap…. you’re a _reaper!?_ ” Sam asked, shocked. “It’s in the  _job_ description to talk to the—- that’s—- you  _have_ to convince her! The longer you wait, the harder it’s going to be! I honestly can’t believe she’s stayed in one spot, that she hasn’t burned this whole forest to the ground, or chased down the clowns who took her in, or—-”

“They were among the ones who perished. I think somewhere, deep down, she knows they are no longer with her. So where else is she to go? Everything and everyone she ever loved met their end here.”

The moon was bright, but Sam still took a several steps forward, to make certain the irritation all over his face was seen. “If you’re so sure she knows, then it won’t be as much of a shock! So  _talk_ to her, convince her there’s nothing left for her here!”

“I am trying to  _tell_  you: I am  _prevented_ from talking with her - that’s our punishment for the fire. I cannot rest until she does, and she cannot rest unless I reap her soul.”

“Call on another reaper! Hell,  _I_  could probably call for—-”

“Listen to me, man!” the ringmaster shouted, closing the distance between them, snatching Sam’s lapels and giving him a stronger shake than would have seemed probable. “She is my  _only_  assignment, and I am the  _only_  reaper assigned to her. There is no other option!”

Sam shoved him away, straightened his jacket, saying, “Except me, right? The psychotic clown whisperer?”

“As I said, my former employer spoke quite highly. And you are the only loophole to the rules, as it were. I am at my absolute most desperate, Mr. Winchester.” 

Sam sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “I could use my brother’s help, it’d make this go quicker, you know.  _Assuming_  I can figure out how to talk her into it. Which is gonna be hard, seeing as how she’s not here anymore.”

The ringmaster grinned, and it wasn’t altogether comforting to Sam. “I can draw her back,” he said. Returning his hat to his head, he clasped his hands behind himself and began to sing under his breath as he strolled away leisurely, a gentle serpentine pattern across the field.

_“They asked me how I knew - My true love was true - I of course replied -Something here inside cannot be denied…”_

The further he drifted from Sam, the softer the song, and the denser the air as the fog slowly began to accumulate once more, rolling in from all sides, the ringmaster’s form gradually disappearing, the tiny, hazy points of light from the the bulbs beginning to fade in.

And this time when Sam approached her, she was sitting up straight, swinging her legs back and forth, humming the same tune, though it slipped away as she turned her head in his direction. She smiled. “Are you are here for the job? I cannot think  _you_ would be an under-stander.”

“I, uh…. no. Not here for a job.”

“Just as well - you are too big! The pyramid would be uneven. I would fall. But I could put in a word. You would be good for banquine.“ She hopped off the tailgate, then paused for a contented sigh, closed her eyes as she added, "I love going high.”

“I  _do_  have a job to do, though,” Sam said carefully - and then even  _more_  carefully - “Your… the ringmaster asked me to talk with you.”

She opened her eyes slowly, and gone was the happy countenance - but she hadn’t reverted to the sadness from before. This time there was something frigid, unreadable about her, and it made Sam gulp, take a small step back. She lowered her gaze, began smoothing out the ruined costume.

“Have you come to ask me about the fire?” she asked in a low voice.

“Yes.”

She met his eye. “No.”

They stood in silence for some time, Sam didn’t know how long, but he knew he had to be the one to break it. “Then can you tell me about the celebration? Grimaldi’s funeral?”

Now the smile returned, her entire demeanor near-bubbly. “Oh,  _yes!_ ” she exclaimed, turning and gesturing for him to follow her. “Come! This way!” She took off, launching into a near-sprint.

Sam found himself rushing to keep up, in spite of his longer strides. “Where are we going?”

“To the big top!” she called over her shoulder. “And I will introduce you to my family!”

Sam slowed momentarily, muttering to himself. “Dean, where the hell  _are_ you?”

.

* * *

.

Dean threw his phone into the car, where it crashed into the console, cracking the screen. His battery was officially dead. He’d called Sam countless times as he walked through the trees, even climbed one part way to get a better signal. He’d covered every inch of the field, the place where Sam was  _supposed_ to be, and Dean was furious that he’d wandered off; it was between furious and fearful, so the choice was obvious.

Dean slammed the door, flopped back against it, rubbed a hand over his face, trying to decide on his next move when a smooth voice came from the rear of the Impala.

“What’s shakin’?”

Dean jumped, whirled around. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. Then he blanched. “Where’s Sam?”

Billie was the picture of calm as she walked around the car. “What’s got you all out of sorts, Dean? Sam’s a big boy.”

Dean gave her a  _look_. “I dunno, we’re on a hunt, my brother’s missing, then Death shows up - gee, you’re right, nothing about that’s worth getting worried over, are you  _kidding me?!”_

Billie chuckled. “No need to worry about Sam. He’s not on my schedule. Not yet, at least.”

Now Dean frowned. “What do you mean?”

Billie looked at Dean, studied his face for a moment to make sure she had his complete focus. “Sam’s gotten himself into a bit of a time shift. And he’s trapped.”

“So how do we—-”

“The trapped he can handle, that’s not what you should be worried about.”

“Then I  _should_  be worried, great, that’s—–”

“It’s not that he’s trapped, Dean. It’s who he’s trapped  _with_.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional "warnings": Mild references to sexual activities; show-level violence

In the time it took for them to cross the threshold of the tent, she stood before him as immaculate as she must’ve been the day she died, costume perfect, make-up intact, no wound, no evidence any of the horror had ever happened. She extended a hand to him. “Come, come! I will make sure you have a seat in the front.”

Sam was hesitant, thinking it would upset her to be reminded she wasn’t exactly on the corporeal end of things, but he reached out - and found she was as solid as he. Her grip was tight as she pulled him toward the front. The dainty golden band on her finger was cool. She was warm.

“Here!” she announced, once they’d reached mid-row.

He sat, saying, “I thought this was only for clowns. I don’t, ah… I don’t want to take up someone’s seat or anything.”

“There is  _plenty_ of room. They will not mind - you are my guest! Now, let me find… find….” She had turned to face the ring as she spoke, the joy slipping away, her face crumbling into disappointment, confusion, concern as she scanned the area.

More of the rickety folding chairs, like the one on which Sam sat, in rows of four along the perimeter of the tent. The curtains on the sides of the rings, where performers would wait for their cues. Small, squatty, brightly-painted stands for the animals to perch upon when performing their tricks in the small ring to the right, the knife-throwing target and a table full of knives in the one to the left.  And last, there it was, the high wire in the middle of the center ring, for her debut, the event of the night. The metal of the ladders leading up to the platforms were shiny in the glow given off by those ever-present strings of bulbs that were never-ending, powered by some unseen, otherworldly generator.

Her eyes lit on the safety net, stretched taut below the wire, and she brought a hand to her chest as she gasped, backing up, her legs bumping into the seat of the chair next to Sam, and she sunk down onto it. Sam didn’t want to push her, hurt her more than she already was, but the need to make her understand her situation trumped it. So he took the window of opportunity.

“What do you remember?” he asked, gentle a tone as he could muster.

“They would not miss this… I do not understand where they are….” She trailed off, fussing with the band on her finger, rotating it as she continued to look around, her brow furrowed in thought.

“Your family?”

She nodded. Then she turned her head sharply to look at him, asked the same question from when they first met. “Can you help me find them?”

He gave the same answer. “I can try.” A pause. “Tell me the last time you remember seeing them.”

“I… I  _just_ ran into them, before… no. No,  _after_ I met you… and after…. after….”

Sam was surprised when she suddenly grabbed his hand, more so when, in a blink, they stood in front of the truck, across from a long wooden wagon with a narrow banner above the door frame reading  _FORTUNE TELLER_. People milled around, but paid them no mind. Sam involuntarily gripped her hand tighter when he realized he was surrounded on all sides by clowns.

Their faces were blurred, their movements twitchy, glitchy. Colors were muted, the booths surrounding them appearing as if he was looking through a scuffed, dirty lens. The only thing clear, sharp, vivid was the wagon. It felt like safety, and he didn’t care what was on the other side of the door - he found himself growing more and more desperate by the second, hoping her next move was to pull him inside.

He didn’t have to wait long.

They turned their heads in unison at the sound of footsteps approaching, pounding into the packed dirt, the sobs nearly overtaking the thuds with every beat. It was her -  _another_ of her - and she didn’t slow as she dashed up the little stairs leading to the door, practically jumping up-and-down, banging furiously with her fist until it opened. She was immediately rushed inside, an older woman with suspicion all over her face taking a moment to peek out, glance around, and - Sam would swear to it - briefly meeting his eye before slamming the door.

Sam looked to his companion. She let out a shaky breath that made the space between them frosty. And once more, with no real time to blink, they had moved, now inside the fortune teller’s domain.

The teller’s headquarters was larger than it would’ve seemed from the outside, positioned with one end to the path, stretching away from where potential customers would be. The far end was where her personal items and her bed were located, Sam could see it through the crack in a pair of heavy, ceiling-to-floor curtains, but the majority of the space was devoted to the front end, where she would read palms and flip tarot cards. It was a somewhat intimidating yet cozy alcove, barely lit with a smattering of candles. There was a subtly spicy aroma courtesy of incense burning on the corner of a hutch with a glass-door cabinet atop it, filled to the brim with trinkets and jars. And then there was the main attraction - tight curls of gray hair tumbling down her back, a garish amount of jewelry, dangling and brassy, and her deep purple robe, along with eye shadow of the same shade, made her so-blue-they-were-almost-violet eyes pierce though the shadows.

There was plenty of flash and distraction, a carefully designed air of mysterious ceremony, but Sam saw more - in the old posters on the walls, and in the worn cloth atop the table, and on the spines of well-used books on the shelves, in the fading pattern of the silky scarf she had wrapped around her head. The symbols were more than familiar, he knew them well. This was no con artist; this was a witch.

The fortune teller’s accent was thick, and she spoke in Romani initially as she stroked the back of the near-hysterical girl in her arms, calming her enough to lower her into a chair. Kneeling, hands went to cheeks, tears were wiped away until they slowed. “Tell me what he’s done,” she said, and in a tone that indicated a sense of knowing.

“I remember this,” whispered the ghost at Sam’s side.

“I know,” he whispered back, focused on the memory unfolding in front of them.

But her memory self couldn’t form words, her breathing still rapid, and the teller rose, walking to the back as she said, “I bring you tea, Butterfly. Then we talk.”

They watched as she twisted in the chair, put her arms on the round table, dropped her head atop them, inches away from the large crystal ball on an ornate black iron stand. Candlelight wove through it, painting rainbows on her skin. Her shoulders shook with each gasp.

“They call me Butterfly because I could not tell them my name when I first became theirs. I did not speak for a year. They said I would flit around and wander and they would have to chase after. I would often climb atop the wagons and take naps on the roofs. They would tease me and say they were building a giant net. To catch me, so they could keep me safe.”

She’d said this to Sam in a monotone stream of consciousness, eyes locked upon her memory self, and the part about the net wasn’t lost on him. “Who is this woman? To you, I mean.”

“One of the aunts.”

Sam was about to ask if this meant she was family of one or more of the clowns, but the fortune teller had returned with the tea, insisted the girl sit up, take a few sips, and when cup met saucer again, the earlier instruction was repeated.

“Now you tell me what he has done.”

.

* * *

.

“A reaper reject?” Dean asked.

“Yup,” Billie confirmed. “Well, not completely. May not have seen eye-to-eye on everything, but my predecessor was a crafty one. Liked to teach lessons creatively.”

“Not news.”

“I thought it was shady, but…” Billie trailed off with a shrug. “Figured there was more to the story I didn’t know. So instead of getting reaped when his ticket got punched, he got a chance to make things right.”

“What ‘things’?”

“Above my paygrade. And the file went missing. Wasn’t on my watch, but here I am, having to clean up the mess.”

“Feels like we’re the ones cleaning up the mess, but maybe that’s just me.”

Billie didn’t respond, merely stared at Dean, and hard. He sighed. She raised an eyebrow.

“Fine,” he said. “What’s the plan?”

“I told him this was it - last chance to finish up his unfinished.”

“Or what? Hell? Purgatory?”

“Or I’d shoot him to the veil to rot, only he wouldn’t get any peace from going mad, I’d make sure he was aware of every second. Lit a fire under him, so to speak. And I didn’t plan on anyone else being involved, but here you are.”

“Here we are,” Dean echoed, looking skyward briefly, trying to stave off his ever-growing frustration. When he brought his head back down, he asked, “How do we get in? To the time loop or whatever it is?”

“We  _don’t_ \- it’s not my team’s creation. Something else is keeping it intact, and Sam’s our inside man. He’s got to find a way to crack it. Then we’ll see about slipping in. But I’m not sure what we’re going to find. Something has that ringmaster real, real nervous.”

“Jumpy ghost, awesome,” Dean said sarcastically.

“Mmmm-hmmm. Still. I got my money on Sam.”

Dean nodded, tone sincere this time. “Yeah. Me, too.”

.

* * *

.

She had finished rehearsal early and returned to the dressing tent to find that her family had a surprise for her - a brand new costume, one less clown and more acrobat. It was embroidered with flourishes of iridescent beads, the waist wrapped with a light-as-air sash that would float around her when she twirled on the wire. They must have saved up for months. Hugs and thank-yous were given out liberally, and then she’d removed it from the hanger, dashed away to show her fiancé what they’d done.

His voice could be heard through the door to his wagon, and she pressed her ear to it, listening for a moment, hand on the knob. Then there was a woman’s voice. A trace of a frown, but it was gone as soon as it came. She still turned the knob slowly, eased the door open, and with a ballerina’s delicate steps, entered the trailer silently. Then she froze.

The ringmaster’s office doubled as his living quarters, much like the fortune teller’s, only here the curtains to his private area were fully parted, his bed in complete view. She spotted the emerald green brocade bodice first, discarded by the desk. Then her eyes fixed upon the fabric tail just beyond his polished-to-a-shine wingtips, heard the zipper, but it didn’t register fully what was happening until fabric with sequined and hand-painted scales pooled around their feet. It was the moan from the mermaid that snapped her back to attention, and she clutched her present tightly, sending a few tiny beads flying as their strings broke, rolling to a stop in front of Sam and the spirit, still clutching hands, watching the memory play out from their spot just inside the door.

Sam looked at them both in turn - the one beside him had no expression on her face whatsoever; the one who had hidden herself behind a high-backed armchair was slack-jawed, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

The mermaid proper was no longer, just the woman behind the act, curves everywhere, from her round face, to her large breasts, to her full hips, and the ringmaster’s hand was between her thighs, fingers hidden from view, palm slowly moving up-and-down at a steady rhythm against a thatch of red hair, the moans rising and falling in volume with each pass.

“Ssshhh,” he said, and captured her pink-lacquered lips in a kiss.

They stopped briefly at the sound of raucous laughter outside, a boisterous conversation of a group of clowns passing by, looking to the door when someone knocked, called out  _“One hour til show time, boss!”_  But whoever it was, they didn’t stay for an answer, and the crowd moved on. The ringmaster walked over to the door quickly, twisting the bolt lock, and it slipped into place with a loud  _THUNK_. Thankfully when he turned, it was in the opposite direction of where she was hiding; she’d squeezed her eyes closed, drawn herself up into a tiny ball in anticipation of being spotted, but resumed peering around the chair when he made his way back to the bed. To his lover. And the one who loved him was stuck where she was, no choice but to be an audience for whatever show was about to come next.

“An entire  _hour?_ ” the mermaid asked in a sultry tone, eyeing him up-and-down as he approached. “What  _ever_ shall we do to pass the time?”

His tailed overcoat and striped waistcoat were hung neatly on a coat rack, just below the top hat, so she didn’t have far to go to get him undressed, and she began by unbuttoning his sharply pleated trousers. The ringmaster grinned, the same slimy one Sam had witnessed before, and while she worked, he dropped his suspenders, stripped off his crisp white shirt, tossed it away, and in no time they were on the bed, moving in concert, heavy breathing and the smell of sex squeezing out all the air in the room.

She was horrified but mesmerized, couldn’t take her eyes off them. She’d dropped the costume, everything but this, this dance of betrayal, forgotten. Her hold on the chair was so fierce, her knuckles had turned white.

“I am a virgin,” the spirit calmly informed Sam. “We wanted to wait til after the wedding.”

Sam looked at her with every bit of sympathy he had to give. He could only hope it would be over soon. And in fact, it didn’t last terribly long, but for her it must’ve seemed like eons.

When all was said and done, the mermaid laid on the bed, stretching like a contented cat, watching the ringmaster as he got dressed. Hair and mustache had been carefully combed, shoes given a cursory buff, and suspenders tightened when she got restless. He  was standing by his desk fussing with cuff links when she spoke.

“Cigarette?”

“Not for me.”

She huffed. “I meant for  _me_.”

He didn’t acknowledge the hint. With a roll of the eyes, the mermaid was on her feet, strolling over to the desk, lifting the lid of a small wooden box; she huffed again, not finding what she wanted, then opened a drawer. She left it open after she retrieved the rumpled pack, bent over in an exaggerated manner while using the flame of a lantern to light it, batting her eyelashes teasingly at him. He snickered, gave her backside a smack that ricocheted off the walls as he walked away.

“ _Oooooooh_ ,” she said as she stood straight, taking a puff and stroking the future welt with her free hand. “Somebody’s in a  _mood_. You’re  _completely_ distracted.”

He retrieved his waistcoat, put it on, then stood in front of a floor mirror, beginning to put on a bright red tie. “It’s an important night for her.”

The mermaid sneered, turned, tossed the pack of cigarettes back into the drawer but didn’t close it; instead she reached in, pulled out something rectangular and folded. Opening it, she scanned the print. She laid it on the desk, daggers shooting from her eyes and into his back. And then she picked up the glass chimney of the lantern, smashed it on the floor.

He startled briefly but it faded, and he stood still, choosing not to face her, instead taking in the scene via the mirror, watching her perch on the edge of his desk, legs crossing, puffing away, staring at him, defiant.

“My dear. You seem vexed.”

“ _One_ ticket,” she hissed, gesturing at the envelope. “Where’s mine?”

He didn’t answer, looked at himself in the mirror again, adjusting the width of the tie.

“You said after you trashed this joint and the insurance money came through, we were outta here.”

He brushed lint from his shoulder.

“You  _said_ you only asked little miss perfect  _bumblebee_ —–”

“Butterfly,” he corrected, now removing the cuff links and putting them in his pocket.

“—–to marry you to get those damned gypsies off your back about higher pay!”

He began rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

She stubbed the butt of the cigarette out on the blotter. “ _YOU SAID_ we were going to Europe  _together_. So I don’t have to sit in dirty  _water_ and smile for the snot-covered kiddies and share a wagon with a bunch of  _freaks_ and have the smell of elephant dung in my  _nose_ all day and night!”

He turned on his heel, clasped his hands behind his back, began humming under his breath as he calmly walked to the desk.

“So what the hell happened, huh? I  _know_ it’s not because you’re just  _dying_ to get married, you’ve told  _me_  that plenty.”

He stood directly in front of her now, tiny shards of glass cracking under his soles as he shifted his weight, the humming continuing as he reached up, smoothing mussed hair away from her face.

“I’ll tell them,” she said, eyes wild. “I’ll tell the investors. I’ll tell the bank. I’ll tell  _everyone_ how you cut corners. How you skim from the ticket sales. I’ll even tell them where the meat in those disgusting sausages comes from. Selling the old horses to a farm, my ass!”

His hands trailed to her jaw and he leaned in closer - she must’ve thought for a kiss, because she pulled back, but he held on firmly and her eyes narrowed.

“Stop humming that  _stupid_ song! You  _owe_ me, and you better follow through, or I swear—–”

The threat was cut off by the pressure he’d begun to apply once his hands slipped down to encircle her neck. The mermaid’s hands immediately shot up to clutch his wrists. The butterfly’s hands moved to her mouth, covering it to remind herself not to scream.

In the distance, there was the sharp  _PING_ of the bell and mild amount of cheering as someone successfully proved their strength. Bits of calliope music snuck through the windows on a breeze. The mermaid struggled, coming off the desk, her bare feet hitting the glass, tiny red ribbons streaking across the floor as the ringmaster wrenched her to the bed, once more the cause of her strangled moans. And as before, he must’ve found her to be too loud, but there were no kisses. Not anymore. Instead, he turned his humming to singing to drown it out as he climbed atop her, pinning her torso while he choked her, the flailing of her legs and clawing of her fingernails across his forearms not distracting him in the least.

Sam closed his eyes, cringing at the sound of the gagging not quite concealed by the song. He opened them again when he heard the spirit lightly singing along. She remained stiff and fixed to the spot, but now she was looking to the huddled, trembling mass that was her memory self. For a moment, the ghost and the killer sang together.

_They said someday you’ll find all who love are blind_

Everything stopped.

The ringmaster, satisfied the job was done, climbed off the bed, not sparing even the slightest of a backward glance at the body, no hesitation or nervousness evident as he straightened his clothes, donned his overcoat. Once more, he admired himself in the mirror, buttoning up, putting on the top hat, even began to sing again as he went through the routine. He removed spotless white gloves from the pocket of his coat. It was when he’d just finished putting them on that it happened.

The mermaid had apparently only been subdued into unconsciousness, because now she’d rolled from the bed, managed to crawl far enough to start pulling herself up with help from the edge of the desk, all unnoticed by her arrogant, preening, would-be murderer. A gurgled groan is what caused him to look up, spot her in the mirror, and he instantly blanched. But he had enough wits about him to quickly glance around - the cane. The last part of his get-up. Snatching it from where it hung on the coat rack, he practically flew at her, the first strike landing before she ever saw it coming, the crack of the ornate handle against her skull sickening.

Sam was furious, his entire body pained that he had to watch this play out, that he couldn’t do anything about it, the fact that it was over six decades gone making no difference to his heart. He tried to give the spirit’s hand a reassuring squeeze - and found he couldn’t. She was  _there_ , he still felt her hand in his, but something was wrong. She didn’t seem quite as solid any longer. But he didn’t have time to think upon it, because of the fire.

The ringmaster had given his victim another blow, a pool of blood now blending with the tiny puddles left behind by the nicks in her palms and knees from the crawl through the glass, and was winding up for a third when he swung too wide and the cane hit the uncovered lantern, sending it sailing up and across the wagon, crashing into the windows on the far wall, the short curtains on them instantly going up in flames.

Whatever calm he had left in his body was gone, and for good. He dropped the cane, eyes wide, and started to scramble, grabbed a calico valise that was tucked under the bed and started shoving things from the desk inside - not the framed engagement photo, nothing of sentiment - only papers, files, ledgers, and a surprisingly large amount of rolled cash from the back of a large bottom drawer. He went to leave, coughing now as the smoke was beginning to accumulate, but paused, went back to the desk one last time, grabbing the envelope with his steamer ticket, his ticket out of there, though it was now tainted, smudged with the mermaid’s bloody fingerprints.

While his back was turned when he was packing, the witness to his crime made a break for it, stifling her coughs, a shaky hand struggling to twist the bolt lock. Even though Sam knew she made it out, knew her next stop was the fortune teller’s wagon, he was nervous. But the lock finally turned, and out she went, smoke billowing behind her, the fire picking up speed now that it had a burst of fuel. He couldn’t know if the ringmaster knew she was there, couldn’t see if he’d turned and spotted her at the sound of the lock because  _she_ hadn’t seen, she’d just taken off into the night.

Sam began to look down at her, considering prodding her to take them away, maybe back to the big top, to  _anywhere_ else, when he felt a shock burn up his arm from his hand, the one she held, and he jumped. He stumbled back a few steps. He tried to catch his breath.

The field was empty.

A slow clap hit Sam’s ears, and he turned to see the ringmaster emerging from the trees, heading his direction.

“Well done, Mr. Winchester. Much-deserved applause. I do believe you’re close to solving our problem.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed - Nash.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam immediately pulled out his gun.

The ringmaster kept coming closer. “ _Tsk_. Oh, Sam. I thought we’d decided that wouldn’t be necessary.” He held out his arms. “I’ve no weapon, and besides, waste of a perfectly good bullet, it would go right through me.”

“I don’t know about that, seeing as how I’ve been holding hands with a clown ghost for most of today.”

“Today?” the ringmaster repeated, and chuckled. “You’ve been here but a moment. Granted, I’m sure it feels like you’ve been gone most of the night for Dean.”

Sam’s jaw tensed. “Where’s Dean?”

“Somewhere…. over…. there?” He gestured vaguely to the woods, then shrugged. “I’ve no interest in your brother. Frankly, I’ve no interest in you. My only interest is getting her to undo this mess. Which  _you_ are now entrenched in, as much as myself.”

“You’re not a reaper.”

Another chuckle. “No, of  _course_ I’m not a reaper. Though I did make a deal with Death. Not the new one, bit of a pill. Other one. Slender fellow in need of sunlight. No reaping of my soul if I could get her to give up the ghost.”

“Why? Why would he make that deal?”

A few steps closer. “He said I was in a unique situation, didn’t quite know what to do with me - heaven, hell, purgatory, middle of the Atlantic, wherever else is an option. The old fellow didn’t visit for awhile, and then the other one came around with her threats. What happened to him?”

Sam ignored the question. “Stop walking.”

The ringmaster complied, and sighed. “I suppose you’re annoyed with me over that whole mermaid and fire-starting affair.”

“You suppose right.”

“Well since the jig is up, hope you won’t mind if I make myself more comfortable?” With that, the ringmaster spun quickly, and by the time he faced Sam again, he looked exactly how he did all those years ago, top hat to mustache to tails to gloves to shiny shoes. “Ta-da!” A pause, then back to taking slow steps forward. “You know, you recognized me so quickly earlier, I’ll have to work on being more discreet with my disguises.”

“You talk like you’re getting out of here. And I said  _stop walking_.”

“You  _need_ me. To get her back. So that you can fulfill your hero duties and save her soul, free yourself, and then feel all nice and warm when you climb back into that atrocious contraption and ride off into your sunsets, save more young girls from men like me. That  _is_ how the story goes?”

Sam raised the gun, aimed directly at the ringmaster’s head. “If it means you being free, too? Never paying for what you’ve done? I think I can stick around a little longer.”

The ringmaster stopped cold, went stiff, and for a few seconds he faded, vibrated like he was on an old strip of film whose reel was wobbly. Like the crowd of clowns. When she’d been deep in her memories. Which made Sam grin.

“I’m starting to think this story’s different,” he said.

“ _Do_ tell.”

“I think things are about to change. I think she can see  _out_ like you can see  _in_.”

“She can’t.” It should’ve been a definitive statement, but it left the ringmaster’s lips with a distinct lack of confidence. “She  _won’t_. She’s content to stay in her nightmare.”

“Or maybe she’s decided it’s time to wake up.“ 

And with that, Sam pulled the trigger.

The fog and smoke immediately returned, engulfing him, swirling, actually lifting him a bit off his feet and dragging him, but only for a few moments. When he opened his eyes, as the gray faded away and the moon could shine once more, he saw was back where he started, across from the fortune teller’s wagon. No lights. No crowd. No sounds. No booths. No tents. And his spirit friend was nowhere to be seen.

The door to the wagon creaked open.

Sam returned his gun to his waistband, and - with a big gulp and one last glance around - he took the hint, went up the stairs, inside, and the door closed itself behind him.

"Sit.”

The no-nonsense voice of the fortune teller came from the back of the wagon, behind the closed curtains. More candles were lit, and the crystal ball had been moved from the table to the hutch, a teacup and steaming kettle atop a trivet in its place. Sam sat, waited, and a few clinks later, his host emerged, carrying another cup for him. He stayed silent while she poured, then sipped; setting her cup down with a nod of satisfaction, she finally looked to him.

“Drink,” she said. “Is perfect.”

Sam picked up the cup, and it was almost to his lips when he hesitated; she let out a hearty laugh.

“No potion, boy. Only tea. I like you.”

“Thanks,” he said, and drank - it  _was_ perfect, couldn’t say he’d ever had better. “This is wonderful. Um, I’m Sam—-”

“Yes, yes, Winchester brother. Little one.”

Sam’s eyebrows raised.

She waved him off. “Big-little. You know.”

“How do you—-”

“Winchesters are known in the veil. Everyone know. You do good work. You see I am witch, yes?”

“Yes.”

A firm nod. “Good. Now we talk business. You free our girl.”

“I’m… I’m trying, but if you could maybe… tell me more? How it is you’re here? Is she  _aware_ that you’re here? Are the, ah… the clowns actually here?”

She frowned. “You ask wrong question. All wrong.” She left him hanging briefly while she drank her tea. Then she began tapping long fingernails on the table, eyes narrowing as she stared at him, in thought. She pointed at him. “You know cursed object?”

“How they work, you mean?” Sam asked, and she nodded. “Sure.”

“I speak with the angel of death before he take our souls. I tell him what the wretch had done. I tell him let  _me_ be death dealer. He liked my plan.” A pause. “I liked  _him_ , too.”

“So you trapped the ringmaster’s soul? He was told that he would—-”

Another waving off as she interrupted. “Yes, yes, does not matter. A lie for a liar.” She held up a finger. “But problem.”

Sam waited, then he assumed he was supposed to know the answer. He didn’t. “What problem?”

“Her. She stays. She runs and hides. Her business is not done.”

“You didn’t mean for her to be trapped,” Sam concluded, received a nod of confirmation. “Is it because of him? Does she still love him?”

The teller scoffed. “ _Love_.” She muttered a string of what Sam assumed was a nice variety of insults and curses in Romani as she stood, walked to the cabinet atop the hutch, pulled out a small box and, after rifling through it, returned to the table with a photograph. She slid it across the table to him, tapped a fingernail on one particular area. “You find this.”

Sam studied the photo - it was of a few of the clowns, the teller, and their butterfly, and on her left hand was a ring. He’d seen it on her, but now could tell there was a tiny solitaire. He looked up, asked, “The engagement ring is the cursed object? Or the diamond?”

“Is fake trinket—-” another few Romani words spoken bitterly, likely translating to  _cheap bastard_  “—but curse very real. I do curse, tell her to hide it.”

“But you don’t know where.” He received a shake of the head, so he asked, “Do you think she’ll tell me?”

“When her work is done.”

“I don’t know what it is that she wants to—-”

“We teach her show must go on. Help her finish show. Then we finish him.”

“Who is ‘we’? If you can get Dean, we can help you with—-”

“ _No_. We take care. But I get you big brother. I like him best. Is feisty.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up once again, and so did the corners of his mouth.

“ _We_ are those he killed. He is  _our_ business. And we leave, no trouble for you or brother. I will keep things…” She glanced away, thinking of the word to use, ultimately rapping on the table with her fist a few times, then reaching across, clamping down on Sam’s forearm. “You see?”

“Solid,” Sam said, and she patted his arm in confirmation upon release. "Like she'd been... how _he_ was, when I first met him."

“Yes. You are smart. But stupid.”

“Sorry?”

“No gun. Not your job. Punch, but no gun.”

Sam nodded. “I understand.”

“Punch hard. In face.”

“If it comes to that I will, I promise.” She sipped from her tea, so he did the same, and it was a comfortable silence, though he had another question. “Where are the others?”

“They are close. They wait in veil. All who burned. I will call them when the time is right.”

“Did you, ah… did you die in the fire?”

She set down her cup, stared at him for a few beats, then reached up, pulled back the scarf to reveal a misshapen forehead, a wound that was practically a crevasse in her skull. She pointed with her free hand to the heavy stand on which the crystal ball rested. “He came to me when he could not find her.”

“Did he know you were a witch?”

“He did not believe before.  _Now_ he believe.” She readjusted the scarf, refilled her cup, and gestured to his. “More?”

“No, thank you.”

“Fine. Off you go. Find her. Finish your job.”

Sam stood, pushed his chair in. “I will. And Dean?”

“I wait til time, then let him see as you see.”

The circus had returned by the time Sam’s foot left the last step. He saw ever-so-faint silhouettes, heard barely-there voices, but none of the crowd faded into being. It didn’t matter - there was only one that held his interest. And he had a feeling he knew exactly where to look. He quickly ducked into a booth, then went to the big top.

It was empty. Sam walked into the center ring, looking around while he did. He went to the middle, directly under the high wire, and held his arm above his head, ticket in hand, showing her he was ready to see what she needed to show him. The strings of lights flickered. The curtains rustled slightly.

“I came to see the show,” Sam called out, turning in a slow circle, still scanning. “I heard tonight was the debut of The Butterfly.”

A blink, and he was off-sides, behind one of the curtains.

The clowns he knew from the photos were in front of him, and there she was, the memory version, being rubbed on the back, given kisses, a last round of encouragements whispered.

“You are sure you do not mind? I thought I should save my new costume. I should be in this, for Grimaldi, because—-”

“No need to explain!” said one of the clowns.

“You are right, and you look  _perfect!_ ” said another. “The new costume should be for when you are the new star attraction!”

“We must make pictures and posters!”

“Yes! It will be beautiful!”

She was fighting tears, Sam could tell, and she was shaking despite the tight hugs they pulled her into, and if he had to guess it wasn’t only from what she’d learned about the ringmaster, but because she was lying to them.

“I am sorry,” she said.

“There is nothing to be sorry about, Butterfly!”

She was gently pulled into the spotlight by the clown who, based on his age, Sam guessed was apparently a patriarch of the group. She forced a smile and waved at the applauding crowd. More than a few honked horns and let out shrill whistles and stamped their feet.

The ones who remained let their smiles fall away, and they gave each other  _looks_ , voices no longer chipper and upbeat when they spoke.

“Where in damnation is the rat bastard?”

“Probably—” a Romani verb “—the mermaid.”

All groaned in unison.

“She is a nervous  _wreck_ \- do you think they were together? That she saw them?”

“When she showed him the costume?”

“We should not have let her go.”

“Since when have we been able to stop her from flying off?”

“WELCOME TO THE FUNERAL OF GRIMALDI!” the replacement ringmaster shouted, and the crowd went wild.

“I have to be ready to start the music,” said one of the clowns, and he turned to walk behind the curtains so he could reach the opposite side without being seen, though as he passed in front of Sam, he stopped, glanced to his side. 

Sam stiffened; the clown shook his head, shrugged, continued on.

“Oh god,” Sam muttered, closed his eyes, brought a hand to his rolling belly.

“WE ARE PLEASED TO INTRODUCE YOU TO…. THE BUTTERFLY!”

More applause, and she bowed, flashed another smile, then more waving as she made her way to the ladder, climbed quickly, and the crowd was silent, watching as she took several deep breaths in-and-out, eyes focused on the wire.

The clown who’d slipped around emerged, pushing a small trolley with a gramophone atop it, and he cranked the handle, held the needle above the record, waited til she gave him a tiny nod, and [the music began](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DHPQxSUHtJww&t=N2E2M2QzZjRhN2I2NjI0NzgxOWQyNzU5YTcyYmUzODRhOGM1ZGNlZCxmY2g2VnNpdA%3D%3D&b=t%3AfeYqJE9V7Id9KtXy3YxHUA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fseenashwrite.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F179815251565%2Fstep-right-up-part-three&m=1).

She wasn’t even a quarter of the way across before she hesitated, knees bending a bit, righting her balance, blinking several times. Sam could see her tightened muscles trembling all the way from where he stood. He knew what was coming, but was still somehow holding out hope.

One of the clowns cursed, said, “Something is wrong.”

“She is not focused!”

“The turn is coming up.”

“She knows better. She  _knows_  better!”

“She will simply walk across, then back, you watch!”

She got a determined look on her face, took a few more steps, then went into the spin - and it was flawless. But as she began to plant her foot, the ankle of the leg on which she balanced bent outward—–

 _When your heart’s on fire_  
_You must realize_  
_Smoke gets in your eyes_

—–and that was that. She pitched to the side, mouth wide open, a haunting scream erupting from her throat.

The sound of the thud made Sam flinch. The clowns bolted out into the ring. The record screeched as the needle was pulled across, the music stopped. The uniform gasp of the audience echoed around the tent, some knocking into others and turning over chairs as they ran out. The clown who had introduced her let out an ungodly wail, dropping to his knees, cradling her in his arms.

“It did not hurt.”

Sam whipped around at the sound of her voice.

She was looking past him, at the small crowd gathered around her memory self’s body. She was wearing the newer costume, hair pulled back in a tight braid, no clown make-up, though her lipstick was the same bright red. He was about to speak to her when several of the audience members who’d left re-entered, shouting at the top of their lungs.

“FIRE! FIRE!”

“THE WHOLE PLACE IS ON FIRE!” 

“HELP! EVERYONE HELP!”

The big top erupted into chaos.

She looked at him and said, “I am sorry you came all this way for such a show.”

Sam held up his ticket, gave her a soft smile. “I came for the  _new_ show.” 

She frowned, glanced down at her outfit, then back.

“Looks like you’re ready for it,” he added.

All went quiet. When they looked out, it was empty, everything in order. Sam tilted his head in the direction of the ring, a silent urging; she didn’t move initially when he took the first steps out of the comfort of the curtains, but it wasn’t long before he heard her footfalls behind him.

She was only a few rungs up the ladder when she stopped, looked up at the wire, down at the net, and then over to Sam, nothing but fear all over her face.

“You won’t fall,” he told her.

“But if I do?”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m not moving. I’ll be right here. And I’ll catch you.”

Her face relaxed, and though a tear escaped her eye, she nodded.

“I believe you.”

.

* * *

.

Billie turned her head toward the field. “Hmmm.”

“What?” Dean asked.

She looked at him with a knowing smile. “Sam’s been busy.”

“Can you be a little more vague?”

“Just start walking. And get ready. I have a feeling you’re about to go on a ride.”

“You’re not coming?”

“Better to have somebody on the outside. Just in case.”

“Thanks, that inspires lots of confidence,” Dean replied, but nevertheless, out into the field he went.

.

* * *

.

There wasn’t a trace of a stumble, not once did she falter. She was even humming her song by the time she completed three hops in quick succession. Her face was beaming with every twirl, feet landing solidly after every leap, and Sam applauded the entire time she was making her way down the opposite ladder. She was blushing, and giggling, but ever the professional, she bowed.

As she walked to him, she grew serious, her appearance turning back to her old self, to that of a clown, with the former costume and make-up, appearing as she did when he met her, tattered and torn, though now she held herself tall, confident. She came to a stop directly in front of him, raised an arm and extended it, palm out. She took a deep breath. They stared at each other.

Sam held his breath, too, brought his hand up to meet hers, moving in slowly. They both watched closely. No contact, and he pulled back. But she didn’t leave; instead, one of those glitches passed over her, and when she was still, he tried again.

This time, flesh hit flesh. They both exhaled, relieved smiles coming to their faces. She threaded her fingers through his, squeezed tightly. They repeated the routine with their other hands, to make sure. Now when she brought her eyes to his, it startled him how fierce, how borderline frightening they appeared, so much so he was glad they were on the same team.

“It is buried near the big cats. There is a large rock on a small hill. Far side of the wagon. Dig just in front. It is wrapped in a yellow scarf. Keep it safe.”

“Where will you be?” he asked.

The grin that came to her face was absolutely chilling. “I must prepare for the encore.”

She disappeared - no fading, just  _gone_. Several bulbs popped in her wake. The entire tent shuddered. Sam heard tinny, out of tune calliope music from somewhere nearby, then raucous, near-maniacal laughter that was even closer.

“Okay!” he announced to the empty space, breaking into run before the last syllable was even out of his mouth.

The strings of bulbs had begun to glow, lighting themselves in succession ahead of him, guiding, ushering him in the right direction.  He took a sharp left, passing by the cotton candy and the booth where darts would be thrown for prizes, the brightly colored balloon targets slowly inflating. The ferris wheel near the end of the path creaked and moaned, beginning to turn, lights coming on around its edges, helping him see things even better.

And as he continued to pass by the tents and booths at high speed, it occurred to Sam that it wasn’t just objects righting themselves to their previous state, everything was moving in reverse - the words the clowns were saying to each other as they rushed to put out the flames, the horses that had been let out to gallop to safety -  _all_ of it. He slowed to a stop, watched as water sloshed back into buckets and flames grew smaller, receding into nothingness, panicked faces returning to pleasant. Well. Pleasant as clown faces could be, he supposed.

Back to running, Sam had barely rounded one of the last tents before he’d reach the animal wagons when he ran into someone so hard, it threw them both to the ground.

Sam recognized the boots immediately. “Dean!”

“Ugh,” Dean groaned, unmoved, flat on his back, blurry eyes staring up at the night sky. “Twinkle-twinkle, little star.”

Sam stood over him, reached out. “C’mon. We should hurry.”

“Why? The ghost worried about keeping a schedule after sixty years?”

Sam rolled his eyes, grabbed Dean’s hands, started to hoist him up, saying, “One of the ghosts. Technically two. Let’s go, I’ll catch you up.”

.

* * *

.

The ringmaster, finally able to enter the circus grounds again, his eavesdropping letting him in on the secret of what kept him anchored, pounded on the fortune teller’s door with both fists, yelling. 

“It won’t work, you gypsy bitch!  _WHERE’S THE RING?!_ ”

He stopped, looked around. Behind him, he spotted the strength test, and he hurriedly retrieved the hammer, stalking back to the wagon and smashing off the handle, splintering the door. He tore through drawer after drawer, shook open books and tossed them aside, emptied the cabinet of every item, finding nothing.

“ _Aaaaaaaaahhhhh!_ ” he bellowed and, as the final part of his tantrum, picked up the crystal ball, heaving it through a window.

.

* * *

.

“Was she hot?”

Sam stopped digging to give Dean a  _look_.

“I mean, besides the tail.”

“She wasn’t an  _actual_ mermaid. And she’s dead, and it wasn’t exactly fun to watch it happen.”

“I meant  _before_ she was—- oh hey. Hey, yellow, right? That’s what the kid said?”

“Yeah, you got it?” Sam asked, scooting over to the hole Dean had been working on. It was their fifth, and he’d begun to get nervous. As they adjusted their positions so the moon could illuminate the hole, sure enough, a piece of bright, silky cloth shone from the dirt. “I’ll pull, help me make sure the ring doesn’t slip out.”

But the dirt had shifted over all those years and packed itself in tightly around the tiny bundle. Dean kept scooping away what would fall every time Sam gave it ginger tugs. Frustrated, the next tug turned into a yank, and the ring went flying.

Dean followed it with his eyes, moving with it, stumbling down the slight incline and, gritting his teeth, dove like he was a baseball player sliding into home base, skidding across the grass, coming to a stop by a huge wooden wheel, managing to catch it just before it rolled under the wagon. His grimace turned into a grin. 

It was short-lived.

A guttural grumble caused him to raise his head slowly. A tiger’s face was right up to the bars - bars Dean found to be  _alarmingly_ too far apart. The cat licked his chops.

“H-hey kitty.”

What would count as the beast’s lip curled into a silent snarl.

Dean tried to smile. “Uh, easy… heh-heh…. tiger….?”

Sam yanked Dean out of the way just before the paw, claws extended, lashed out.

“Did you  _see_ that cage? They think a  _hamster’s_  in it? Who  _makes_ those things?!” he exclaimed as they hustled to the big top.

“Here, give me the ring,” Sam said, and Dean passed it over.

“We don’t need to salt and burn it?” he asked.

“No, not us. We have to take it to the witch.”

“The w…. oh for crying out  _loud_ , Sam!”

“Did I leave that part out?”

Their bickering never got to a fever pitch because upon entering the big top, they both stopped on a dime at the sight before them. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed :)


	4. Chapter 4

Only one area was illuminated, the large spotlights focused on the center ring. The rest of the tent was pitch with shadows. And there she stood, next to the high wire by one ladder, the ringmaster across from her, next to the other. His fists were clenched, and he was twitchy, and unkempt, his face and clothing smudged with soot, holes here-and-there where embers from the fire had landed. He was flushed, just _seething_ with anger, and she couldn’t have looked more relaxed, not a flicker of fear.

“Where is it?!” the ringmaster demanded.

“Far away from you,” she replied, and laughed.

“Stash it someplace,” Dean whispered to Sam, who quickly stuffed it in his back pocket.

“Stupid nit. This isn’t some game. I’m not in love with you, I never  _was_ , keeping me here won’t change that!”

“Oh!” she said, making her eyes wide, her lips forming an O, bringing her hands up to her cheeks in what was clearly faux shock. Then she twirled, came out of it to begin lazily skipping in a circle, arms out, like a little girl who hadn’t a care in the world.

And as she did, from all sides, forms were emerging from the darkness. The ringmaster was startled, began moving away from the ones behind him, closer to the center. Her clown family was nearest to her, and Sam began taking inventory of the others, those he hadn’t seen before.

There were at least——

“Two?!  _Two_ ghosts? Two ghosts, he said!” Dean hissed, and Sam gave him a  _look_ , then went back to his observing.

There were at least fifteen additional people, several more clowns, a few acrobats, mostly other performers. Some Sam took to be vendors, based on their uniforms. Another man carried a long whip, coiled in his fist, he and the woman beside him in safari-like attire. A tall, slender woman in a slinky dress had a boa - snake, not feather - wrapped around her shoulders. A quite large woman wearing a long, clearly fake beard held hands with a very tiny man, the latter of whom climbed atop one of the stands for the animal performance, a chattering spider monkey in a vest and bowler hat perched on his shoulder.

Two more men on the other side, standing near the clowns, were dressed in coveralls, one carrying a wide, long-handled broom, the other a mop and bucket - likely animal carers, if he had to guess. Then further behind them, there was the fortune teller, keeping part-way in the shadows, and out came the mermaid, walking slowly in her tight, tail-trimmed skirt. The wounds on their heads seemed sticky and fresh. It surprised Sam to see the teller put an arm around the mermaid, but then again, any bad blood didn’t matter now; they were all united in purpose.

And though their clothing only showed signs of singes and ash, every single one of them were burnt, not one bit of exposed skin that wasn’t melted and charred, faint tendrils of smoke still floating into the air as they moved. These were the people who were fighting to stop the blaze at the far end of the field, where the fire burned the strongest, where the animals were housed and the living quarters - the personal wagons - were located. Where the fire from the ringmaster’s had been ignored, left to do away with the evidence of his crime, only to jump, seeking other tinder to consume. As it had only barely made it to the front, to the big top, the little butterfly was the only one who escaped without looking completely like a scene from a horror movie. Her, and the ringmaster.

“How did you die?” she asked, ending her skipping not far from the ringmaster, tapping him on the shoulder.

He’d been staring at the crowd behind him, and the tap made him jump as he whirled around. “Wh-what?” he stuttered.

She leaned in, whispered the question again in a loud, exaggerated way. “ _Howwwww_ did you  _diiiiiiiiiie?_ ”

“I don’t… I was looking for  _you_ … you weren’t in your wagon or the dressing tent… weren’t at the fortune teller’s… but then I went to… went to… I wanted to leave. But I  _couldn’t_ …. something stopped me…” The ringmaster trailed off, confused for a moment, then in a flash he was staring at her with tears in his eyes. “No. I  _did_ find you.” He reached out as if to grab her, but she dodged. “ _Why_ did you get on the wire? After what you’d seen….  _why_ would you  _DO_ that?!”

She dropped her girlish act then, eyes flashing, voice full of venom. “You were coming to kill me. The job was done for you. Why did it matter?”

“No… it was because…. because I thought to take you with me…. but then I saw….” He reached out again, to caress her cheek. This time she stayed put - and his hand went right through her. He gasped. “What  _is_ this?” He looked to the fortune teller. “You said things would be made whole!”

“You want to be whole?” the teller asked in response. “Are you certain?”

“I want to  _leave!_ ” he yelled and, looking back to his former fiancée, said, “And I want you to leave with me!”

“You do not love me, you said so. You  _showed_  me so. You do not cry for me, you cry for  _yourself_. And you do not want me - you only wanted me to lie for you. And when you saw I could not, you took the coward’s way out.”  She tilted her head, looking up, past the high wire, to the scaffolding that kept the big top erect.

There, dangling by the neck from a rope, was the body of the ringmaster.

He stumbled back, eyes fixed on his dead form. “No….no no no….  _NO!_ ”

“You are not leaving. None of us are leaving,” she said quietly.

The fortune teller stepped forward now, and with a wave of her hand, the body fell, landing in a heap. She knelt beside it, waved her hand again, and a soft purple glow ran across it, then up, over, swirled around its ghost, and drew it back in. With a huge intake of air, the ringmaster found himself back in his body, flailing for a moment and then scrambling to his feet.

The group inched ever closer.

So did Dean and Sam. Dean began to pull out his gun, but Sam shook his head. Dean gave him a questioning look, but he acquiesced.

“I don’t want to be dead!” the ringmaster said to the fortune teller, and then something seemed to occur to him. He stooped, picked up the top hat that had fallen with him, putting it back on, trying to seem put-together, in control, ever the huckster pitching a sale. “We can  _all_ be alive! You have magic, you can heal us all! The money, it must still be here - we can split it! You can undo everything!”

“Our time has passed,” she replied. “You must pay for what you have done.”

And just like that, the act fell away. “ _NO!_ ” he screamed again, turned to run, but didn’t get far. Dean punched him so hard, it knocked the top hat clean off, landing somewhere in between the seats. The ringmaster went to his knees with a yelp, holding his nose.

Everyone stared.

The fortune teller caught Sam’s eye, raised her eyebrow, pointed to Dean in approval; Sam made a  _What are you gonna do?_  gesture and shrugged.

Dean noted the staring, frowned at them, then pointed at the moaning man. “Well, he’s a dick!”

The clowns began laughing, clapping, jumping up-and-down, a little  _too_  hard, all of it, though Dean seemed pleased they enjoyed his performance, giving them a slight bow in acknowledgment.

The clowns edged closer; Sam took a reflexive step back. And before either brother could react, with all the distraction happening, the ringmaster took the opportunity to snatch Dean’s gun from his waistband, and he came up behind Sam, gun pointed at the back of his head, and gave him a hard shove. Sam didn’t speak, didn’t fight it, keeping his eyes locked on her, though she was still staring her enemy down.

“You want to fly away with  _him_ , I suppose, don’t you, Butterfly?  _‘To think they could doubt my love, yet today my love has flown away’_  - isn’t that how our song goes?!” the ringmaster asked, pushing the barrel into Sam’s head. “Too bad! Because I’m taking  _this_  and you can all burn again, in hell!”

He reached down to Sam’s back pocket, where the tail of the bright yellow scarf was protruding, and began to pull.

And he pulled.

And he pulled  _more_.

And he  _kept_  pulling.

While the rest remained stone-faced, the clowns went borderline hysterical, grabbing their bellies, bent over with laughter, one even dropping to the ground and kicking his legs in the air.

The scarf kept coming and coming, kept growing, a puddle of rainbow fabric around the ringmaster’s feet. He had begun to sweat - and he had also begun to lower the gun. Dean was able to come behind him and take it away without issue. The scarves having run out, the ringmaster knelt, pawing through the pile of silk, searching for the ring.

One of the clowns had laughed his way over to where the knife-throwing target was set up, set to juggling six of the knives from the nearby table. Another clown retrieved the top hat, put it on his head, then hopped on a chair, tipping it onto two legs, balancing expertly. A third jumped up a few rungs on the ladder to the high wire, swinging around, back and forth, honking a small horn. 

The two workers began spinning the mop and the broom, respectively, occasionally tossing them into the air, executing quick spins before they came back down, as if they were lightweight batons. The boa flexed its jaw wide. The monkey screeched. The lion tamers unfurled and snapped their whips. And the butterfly began to sing, twirling slowly in a circle around the sobbing ringmaster.

_They asked me how I knew  
My true love was true_

“Stop it!” he cried, bringing his hands to his ears.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Both brothers’ heads jerked in near unison at the sound of heavy footsteps to the left, and the shadow cast by the lights outside revealed something so massive - make that  _two_  somethings -  it made their mouths fall open.

“Dumbo?” Sam whispered.

“And Dumbo’s _mom_ ,” Dean whispered back.

The crowd’s advance halted, some shifting aside so that the juggling clown was front and center. The ringmaster was shaking as he climbed to his feet. He held up his hands as if declaring surrender, but the clowns kept laughing, the ones who’d been playing around now coming nearer to their juggling comrade. One by one, five of the six knives were passed off fluidly, and when the sixth came down, it was caught, flipped, and sent right into the ringmaster’s thigh in one smooth movement.

He hit the ground, wailing, trying to hold the injury and slicing up his fingers on the protruding blade for his trouble. A lion’s roar from just beyond the tent’s entry briefly drowned him out. The elephants trumpeted, stomped their feet. Horses hooves pounded outside, from all directions, as if they were running a derby around the big top. The advance of the wronged upon the ringmaster resumed.

Dean and Sam now retreated themselves past the high wire, out of the center ring, their backs against the tent, as far removed as they could be; no sooner had they done so, Sam spotted something.

“Dean. Don’t.  _Move._ ”

“Not.  _Planning_. On—  _Oh_.”

They held their breaths as the tiger walked directly in front of them. It was so close that when its agitated tail whipped up, Dean felt the fur brush under his nose. It paid them no mind, fell into the routine with the rest, circling its prey.

“Good kitty,” Dean breathed out.

A murmur went across the crowd, and other than the ringmaster’s crying, everything - inside and out - went pin-drop quiet. Dean and Sam looked at each other, then to the others. Every eye was on them, and they had no idea what was going to happen next. The clowns were now in a line, shoulder to shoulder, and their butterfly was center front.

“It is time,” she said.

“We, um…. we can go,” Sam offered. “If you don’t need our—-”

“My ring, please.”

Dean and Sam shared another glance, and Sam said to her, “I don’t know where it went, it was—-”

He cut himself off because the spotlights flickered, the tiger growled, the wind picked up and shook the entire tent, horses whinnied, and the lion slowly strolled through the entry, two lionesses close behind. The lights came back with a fury, showing that every face had grown dark, eyes sunken and cloudy, skin showing signs of rot. And worst of all - worst for Sam - were the clowns.

They were now advancing on _him_ , creeping forward, all sneers and bared teeth - until she scurried ahead, and stood between them. They blinked, shaken out of their trance-like attack, some even hanging their heads apologetically, all shuffling back to join the rest. She turned to Sam.

“I…. I had it,” he said. “I don’t understand what—-”

“Shhhh,” she said, putting a finger to his lips briefly. Her finger was cold. So was her expression, her demeanor. But he felt safe. Safe enough not to need to plead for his and Dean’s lives.

She placed a hand over her heart, and her eyes left his long enough to glance at his jacket.

With a slight frown, Sam reached inside, feeling around in the breast pocket, and then he smiled - a nervous, relieved smile. He pulled out the ring, saving wondering how the clowns had pulled off that trick for another time; or, possibly _never_. He held it out to her, and she took it, turned away; but almost as soon as she had, she turned back part-way.

She seemed to have a silent conversation with the fortune teller, who gave her a nod, then turned fully to again face Sam. She reached out, took his left hand, raised it, and slipped the ring onto his pinky, where it fit just above his knuckle. Then as before, she threaded her fingers through his, gripped tight.

They stared at each other for a few moments before he said, “We’ll give you time to do what you need to do. But when we start—-”

“I know,” she said.

He nodded. “I wish… I wish I could’ve saved you.”

She released his hand. “You  _did_.”

Dean and Sam carefully navigated around the ring to get to the exit, giving everyone - and the animals - a wide berth. There was no grace period, no waiting for them to leave before beginning to take turns at the ringmaster. But somehow, cutting through it all, over the gaily laughing clowns and the screams of agony, way across the field, even as they entered the fog, was the sound of her singing.

 _Now laughing friends deride_  
_Tears I cannot hide_  
_So I smile and say_  
_When a lovely flame dies_  
_Smoke gets in your eyes_

_._

* * *

.

The fortune teller had been right; the ring wasn’t real gold, not even close. They’d waited about an hour, which - if Dean’s calculations were correct based on how long Sam had been gone - gave the troupe a solid eight to finish their business. They were sitting on a fallen log, watching the last of it melt away in the salted fire, when Billie appeared.

She walked over, held up a folder. “Found the file.” She tossed it into the fire, then leaned against a tree across from them.

Dean gave her a  _look_ , and Sam’s forehead creased; he’d have to ask later.

“So how’d it feel to save a bunch of clowns, Sam? The exposure therapy work?” asked Billie.

“That… that  _couldn’t_ have been what all this was about…  _was_ it?” Sam asked, incredulous. “The ringmaster had said he was allowed to contact us, that I’d been recommended for it, but that would be—”

“Stupid,” Dean interjected.

“Not  _so_ stupid,” Billie said. “Maybe it was good for you to get to know someone who grew up around what frightens you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, somebody who had a mish-mashed family full of interesting folks, some who were scary-seeming to others, but they  _were_ family, and they were always on her side. And they were always on the move, on the road. Most all of them - in some ways - always on the run.  _Definitely_ misunderstood.”

A smile, albeit a somewhat sad one, began to appear on Sam’s lips.

“They wear greasepaint and costumes, all kinds of obvious masks, some with outward oddities that can’t be hidden. Hunters have their scars that are tough to hide, too, you know. Their masks are more subtle. But it’s still there, that proof of life. Under the smoke and mirrors. And they can all put on a hell of a show—” a glance to the smoldering ring “—or, when needed, be showstoppers.“

"Well that was poetic. And subtle,” Dean said flatly.

Billie ignored him, still looking to Sam. “Well? What’s the verdict?”

Sam took a moment to think of his answer, then said, “I’m… reconsidering clowns.  _Some_ clowns.”

Billie grinned. “Fair enough.” And then, she was gone.

Dean exhaled loudly, clapped his hands together as he stood. “Wheeeew! So! Another one for the books.” He pulled out his keys, shook them at Sam. “Ready to get the hell out of here?”

Sam glanced back at the field, a real smile now coming to his face. “Yeah,” he said softly.

In the car, as their path was about to turn from dirt to pavement, Dean hesitated for a moment, asking, "You need for us to stop, grab a beer? Find a motel and crash for awhile?"

Sam shook his head, not looking at Dean, but staring out the window. “No. I want my own bed.”

Dean watched him for a few moments, waited, knew his brain was chewing on something else.

Now Sam met his eye. “Can I tell you about her?”

Dean nodded, turned down the radio, and pulled onto the road. “Shoot.”

"So she lost her parents when she was really young, but she gets taken in by another family, this group of clowns, and they...."

The small fire died, the smoke left the field, and the hunters drove off into the sunrise.

* * *

 

 

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> _Just some fun stuff I included at my blog...._
> 
>   *  You can learn more about Joseph Grimaldi  **[here](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FJoseph_Grimaldi&t=OTQxNWRhYWViZjg5ZGIwY2NhNTg3MTVjODBlZmY0MjRiMTllY2RjYix5MVB5UGY1SA%3D%3D&b=t%3AfeYqJE9V7Id9KtXy3YxHUA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fseenashwrite.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F179813360820%2Fstep-right-up-part-four&m=1)** , and about the London version of the celebration “The Funeral of Grimaldi”  **[here](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.atlasobscura.com%2Farticles%2Fits-okay-to-giggle-at-the-clown-funeral&t=MDNkY2YzNWNjNTg0MzA0ZTA0NjkzM2ZmYjQwNzA2YzBiMzA0ZGNjYix5MVB5UGY1SA%3D%3D&b=t%3AfeYqJE9V7Id9KtXy3YxHUA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fseenashwrite.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F179813360820%2Fstep-right-up-part-four&m=1)**. I love this dude:
> 

> 
> I will never write anything as grand as “pugilistic vegetable”.
> 
>  
> 
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>   * On the subject of the song –> I promise you’ll recognize it when you hear it. It’s “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes” ( _apropos, yes?_ ) and chances are you’re most familiar with the more modern versions, specifically the one by  **[The Platters](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DH2di83WAOhU&t=NzllZjVkNjVjZWQ1NTdjMmY1M2U3YjkwY2E2NTA3ZTM4M2QxYjI0Nix5MVB5UGY1SA%3D%3D&b=t%3AfeYqJE9V7Id9KtXy3YxHUA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fseenashwrite.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F179813360820%2Fstep-right-up-part-four&m=1)** (1957). And you may be thinking  _“Nash! You whiffed! You’ve got this story taking place in the 40s!”_  Friends, why do you doubt me? It’s from a play in the 30s, and you can hear a lovely by the name of Gertrude Niesen (1933) sing it  **[here](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DHPQxSUHtJww&t=MDg2NGUwN2U4OGEwMGQ0OTRmNDU1MjVlMzEzNmUwZjE1NjRmMGM0ZSx5MVB5UGY1SA%3D%3D&b=t%3AfeYqJE9V7Id9KtXy3YxHUA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fseenashwrite.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F179813360820%2Fstep-right-up-part-four&m=1)**.
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>   * On the topic of Romani circus performers, you can learn about one very special family, the Bougliones, via  **[the obituary](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.bbc.com%2Fnews%2Fworld-europe-45341107&t=MTg2YjRhZWJjM2Y5ZmIyY2UwYmUxMWMxYjNkNGE1NzdkNmZlNTFhNSx5MVB5UGY1SA%3D%3D&b=t%3AfeYqJE9V7Id9KtXy3YxHUA&p=http%3A%2F%2Fseenashwrite.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F179813360820%2Fstep-right-up-part-four&m=1)**  of one Rosa Bouglione, their matriarch, who died in September at the age of 107. She was a badass:
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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed :)


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